Berthier’s face twisted into a pained expression and for a moment words failed him.Then he swallowed and spoke.‘Sir . . . she has a lover.’

‘A lover?’

‘Yes.’

Napoleon thought he was going to be sick, and bit down, clamping his lips together. His first instinct was to reject the idea, but then doubts rushed in to fill his mind like winter shadows. ‘Who, then? Who is this lover? Tell me!’

‘His name is Hippolyte Charles.’

‘Charles? The cavalry officer who came with her to Italy?’

Berthier nodded.

Napoleon’s mind instantly leaped back to those times where he had encountered Josephine in the young officer’s company, and his heart felt as if it was locked in a cold vice. Doubt edged towards certainty and he looked round the hall at the other officers. ‘Who else knows?’

Berthier shifted uncomfortably. ‘It is known to most of Paris, sir. Has been for several months.’

‘Months . . .’ Napoleon lowered his head. All hope was fading, and in its place a tide of rage and, worse, shame engulfed him. If Paris society knew of this infidelity, had known of it for months, then he would be a laughing stock.They would look at him with the same cruel, amused contempt that was reserved for all cuckolded husbands. They would be laughing at him behind his back. He felt his cheeks burn as he realised that the grand reputation he had been trying to build for himself, and for Josephine, was worthless if she was so openly entertaining a lover while her husband was away at war.Then he raged at himself for not seeing it before. For being blinded by his love for her, his unquestioning belief in her devotion to him. He was worse than any lovesick boy and the knowledge burned into him like a heated iron and he slumped down on a cushion.

Berthier glanced round at the other officers and nodded towards the entrance to the banquet hall. Silently, the men began to drift away, slowly emptying the chamber until at last only Berthier and Junot remained with him. Junot, who had served with Napoleon through so many dangers and adventures, felt compelled to offer some comfort to his friend. He reached his hand tentatively towards Napoleon’s shoulder and then hesitated, horrified by the enormity of what he was on the verge of doing. No general could show weakness. Before Junot could commit such an unpardonable transgression of the written and unwritten codes that exist between a commander and his subordinate officers, Napoleon glanced up, eyes red and glistening as he struggled to fight back the grief that threatened to overwhelm him.

‘Get out. Both of you.’

Junot withdrew his hand. ‘Sir, I just wanted—’

‘Get out!’ Napoleon screamed at him.‘You heard me! Get out and leave me alone! Now!’

Junot recoiled nervously and made his way over to the great doors at the entrance to the chamber. For a moment Berthier tried to think of some words of consolation, but what can one man say when faced with another’s betrayed love? It was too painful, too personal, for tokens of comfort. So he turned to follow Junot, and closed the door softly behind him, leaving Napoleon sitting on his cushion, nursing his head on his arms. For a long time he stared at the floor tile between his boots and then his vision blurred as the first tears, which he had failed to fight off, welled up in his eyes. He pressed the palms of his hands against his face and at last gave in to his grief and rage.

For several days Napoleon rarely emerged from his quarters in the palace. It was hard to bear the shame of being almost the last man to know the truth about Josephine’s treachery. He sensed that those around him regarded him with a mixture of pity and amusement, even though they struggled to hide their feelings. Soon the rest of the army would hear the rumours, if they hadn’t already, and their laughter would echo that of Paris society. The great general who commanded France’s armies and conquered her enemies, yet could not control his wife. Nor satisfy her as a man should. That Josephine should prefer a foolish, vacant-headed cavalry officer to him fell on his heart like a great weight. The recent victory, and all the others before, seemed no more than insignificant details now, and his immediate ambitions seemed futile and pointless. In an attempt to work through the dark thoughts whirling through his mind, Napoleon forced himself to write a letter to Joseph.

The words came slowly and painfully as he set down his feelings. ‘Glory is stale when I am only twenty-nine. I have achieved everything a man can in this life. And now there is nothing left for me but to become really and completely selfish . . .’

He looked at the last word on the page with loathing and despair. He must not let himself sink into a well of self-pity.There would be time for that later, when he returned to Paris and confronted Josephine. Meanwhile an army stood by, waiting for his orders. The fate of twenty-five thousand Frenchmen, and the future of an empire, lay in his hands.

Very well then, he decided. He would harden his heart and pursue his goals with utter ruthlessness. Every enemy he killed, every army he crushed, would be dedicated to Josephine and those who mocked him.

Napoleon led the army out of Cairo early in August. Ignoring Murad Bey and his Mamelukes for the moment, he tracked down the large host of ragged and poorly armed foot soldiers under Ibrahim Bey. Napoleon’s men had been issued with new, lighter uniforms and were accompanied by hundreds of commandeered carts and camels carrying casks of water. He marched them hard, driving Ibrahim Bey before him, until he caught up with the enemy at Salalieh. There was no battle to speak of, merely a bloody massacre as wave after wave of the fellahin conscripts were cut down by musket fire and grapeshot, until their bodies covered the ground before the ranks of the French soldiers. When, at last, the shattered remnants of Ibrahim Bey’s army broke and ran, there were few cries of triumph from the French ranks. Most men simply stared out across the piles of peasant bodies and blood-spattered sand in numbed horror.

‘This is not war,’ Berthier said quietly. ‘It is murder.’

Napoleon sniffed.‘It is neither.This is what victory looks like. The sooner our men get used to this the sooner our task in the east will be complete and they can go home.To which end, give the order for the pursuit of the enemy. Take command here, Berthier. Keep after them. Push the men as hard as you can, and there must be no mercy shown to the enemy. None, do you hear? I want the survivors to spread word of what happens to those who choose to oppose us. Then next time this can be avoided.’ He gestured towards the battlefield.‘Now I must return to Cairo. Send me word of your progress.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Berthier saluted.

Napoleon wheeled his horse round and rode back to headquarters. He ate quickly as his mounted escort was assembled, and then they set off along the route back to Cairo. They had only ridden for two hours when they saw a small dust cloud on the track ahead of them. Napoleon reined in as the guides fanned out around him, ready to draw their sabres. As the other group approached Napoleon realised it was merely a dispatch rider accompanied by a handful of dragoons, and the tension eased amongst his men as they resumed their formation at his back. As the horses galloped up, foaming at the mouths and flanks heaving from their hard ride, the messenger made straight for Napoleon. His expression left no doubt that something terrible had occurred.

‘Urgent message from General Kléber at Alexandria, sir.’

‘What’s happened?’ Napoleon snapped. The rider was breathing heavily and struggled to find the words to relate the news. Napoleon frowned. ‘Well? Speak up, man!’

‘The English fleet attacked our ships at Aboukir Bay ten days ago, sir . . .’